“Why not?”
I shrug. “He’s got particular tastes.” Blue’s stuff is sprawling, but simple—no color, no dramatic back pieces or anything. A lot of it strip-mall tribal stuff I have to think he got as a kid—which, whatever, we all go through phases. Kind of the point of tattoos, in a way, holding onto that even as the rest of you changes. “I’m…not his type,” I finish.
Wendy’s only half listening, focused on her drawing. Or so I think, because then she looks back up. “What about Tink?”
“Huh? Oh.” I pause, considering. “I haven’t done any of…” I trail off mid-sentence. Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a tattoo on Tink. I mean, I haven’t seen that much of him. He never really walks around shirtless—or full-on naked like Pan has a few times, Jesus Christ. But what I have seen, elbows to wrists, neck, face, obviously…
No, I realize,nothing. Maybe he’s got a tramp stamp or a rib tattoo or something, but…
“Nope,” I say. “Never done Tink. I don’t even think he has any, actually.”
Wendy laughs.
“What?” I ask.
“So he’s not very tough,” she says. “Like you said.”
“Well,” I equivocate. “I mean…don’t say that toTink, but?—”
“Say what to me?”
Tink thumps in from the spiral stairs. Wendy looks up from her sketchbook, then throws me a little smirk.
“Oh, nothing.”
I widen my eyes a little. Don’t make me complicit in your mischief, kid.
But Tink just nods distractedly. “Cool, cool. You good down here?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, grabbing my own sketchbook back into my lap. “I kinda need to finish something, though, and we’re gonna be officially open in like twenty…”
I let my gaze drift to thechild younger than 18 years of ageandnon-service-animal dogthat are currently occupying the shop.
“Right,” Tink says. “Come on back upstairs, Wendy. Kit’s gotta work.”
“Aw.” Wendy pouts, but gets up—not without one more look atmysketchbook, though. She draws her brows, pensive.
“I think it’s the hair,” she says finally. “That’s what’s making her look weird.”
“You think?” Hm. She might not be wrong. I pick up my pencil again. “I’ll…see what I can do.”
The two—well, three—of them head off, and I look back down at my sketch for real. And you know what…the kid is right. Joan looks less like a triumphant heroine about to storm the gates and more like a little lad who wants berries and cream. I fumble for my kneaded eraser and gently smudge away the bob, so Joan is now standing there bald, one arm raising a sword and the other holding her helmet to her hip. For a minute, I toy with the idea of just putting the helmet on her head, but no—the whole point is revealing what’sunderthere, right? Maybe it’s more like…
I hunch over and dart my pencil back in, quick, shortish lines with the flat of the lead. Even a bob would get in the way. She’d need something practical. Something that’d work under a helmet. Not a buzz cut, exactly—no clippers in the Middle Ages, for one thing—but something still just a tiny bit feminine.
A whatever it’s called. Pixie cut.
And blonde, I think.She needs to be blonde.
I press harder now, confident outlines over the sketch. Short. Intentional. Achoice,a defiant one.
When I’m done, I survey the result.
Joan looks good. Proud. Triumphant.
Perfect.
And not a moment too soon, because next thing I know, the shop bell’s ringing and my 11 o’clock is here for her sleeve. I blow out a breath and set down the sketchbook to go wash my hands.
